


stag night: take two

by simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crack, Drinking, Drunken idiots, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fairly cracky, Gay Bar, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, Greg has had enough, Handsy Baker Street boys, Horndogs John and Sherlock, Humour, Johnlock - Freeform, Long-Suffering Greg Lestrade, M/M, POV Greg Lestrade, Poor Greg Lestrade, Pub Crawl, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Sherlock is a Brat, Silver Fox Greg Lestrade, Stag Nights & Bachelor Parties, engaged Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:33:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26685967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: After missing out on John's first stag night, Greg tries to plan a fun evening for his engaged friends.He is immediately filled with regret. So much regret.
Relationships: Greg Lestrade & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 22
Kudos: 139





	stag night: take two

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Мальчишник: дубль два](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26911288) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> 🤷🏻♀️

When Greg proposed a joint stag night after John and Sherlock announced their engagement, he could not have predicted just how much he would come to regret the suggestion. 

John was easy. He was laid back, relaxed, happy to go wherever Greg had planned. He was the epitome of easy-going. Sherlock was a nightmare. Not that Greg was surprised, but he had thought this could be one area Sherlock Holmes might relax his neurotic need for control. 

He was wrong. So very wrong. 

After the 34th text message and the 21st email citing _exactly_ how John liked his beer, the optimal pub lighting required for John to feel comfortable enough to relax, the ratio of sticky floor to enjoyable venue versus an establishment that was ‘just too rowdy,’ Greg had enough. 

He abandoned his attempts at planning to the wind, threw the two newly-engaged men into the back of a cab, gave the driver the address for the first pub, and away they went.

Loud, drunken rugby blokes filled the first pub. John seemed pleased, but Sherlock took one look around, noted the eyes that lingered on his fiance, and looped his arm through John’s to drag him back out onto the street. Greg thought the jealous display was a little endearing until Sherlock grabbed John’s face between his large hands and proceeded to snog the daylights out of the ex-soldier. 

Greg turned away with a wince as the kiss went well beyond a quick peck, clearing his throat when Sherlock began licking past John’s lips and groping his arse.

“Alright,” he protested, eyes averted as he clapped his hands briskly. “That’s more than enough. Now, can we—for the love of _God,_ Sherlock, get your hands off John’s belt buckle!” 

The two finally broke apart, Sherlock brazenly holding Greg’s eyes as he smoothed his curls into place. John, at least, had the decency to look embarrassed, but the expression faded into a soppy grin as he blinked up at Sherlock.

“You two are giving me heartburn,” Greg groaned. “Okay, second pub it is.”

  
  


The second pub appeared to be satisfactory, and Greg stuffed his infatuated mates into a corner booth. 

“Sit,” he commanded, pinning them in place with a hard stare. “I’ll get the first round.” 

John offered a pleasant, “Ta, mate,” as he sidled closer to Sherlock. The detective slung an arm around his fiance’s shoulder, quirked a brow at Greg, and said nothing. 

Making his way to the bar through the crowded pub, Greg tried to catch a glimpse of John and Sherlock, but a large fogged-glass wall blocked his view. He settled for tapping his fingers against the counter as the bartender poured their pints. There was a sinking feeling in his stomach as Greg realized he might have bitten off far more than he could chew. At the very least, Greg was beginning to understand why Mycroft had outright refused to attend the night out. And it likely had more to do with not wanting to see his younger brother amorously paw at his husband-to-be, and less to do with his icy demeanour. 

Greg’s suspicions were confirmed when he returned to the table and found John’s tongue in Sherlock’s mouth, Sherlock humming and purring with pleasure. Every person in the immediate vicinity shot them uncomfortable looks. 

“Christ, you two,” Greg hissed as he slid into his seat, “could you _at least_ keep it under the table?!”

The look Sherlock fired his way as he and John broke apart could have set fire to Satan himself. “Oh, look, John. Dad’s back.” Sherlock shifted back slightly in his chair despite the mocking words until he was no longer almost seated in John’s lap, and Greg breathed a relieved sigh.

“Yeah, thanks for that,” Greg snapped, setting their pints on the table. “If we could make it through _one drink_ , that would be fantastic.” 

“Sorry, Greg,” John said, amiably tilting his drink in cheers before taking a long swallow. Sherlock simpered at Greg over the rim of his beer.

“Yes, very sorry, _Gavin_ ,” he purred, his wolfish grin making Greg seriously consider smacking him.

Instead, he grumbled into his beer and muttered, “You’re insufferable. I don’t know how John puts up with you.”

Sherlock’s grin widened, and he moved as if to crawl into John’s lap again. Greg kicked him hard under the table, and the detective subsided with a pouty glare. 

_Lord, give me strength,_ Greg thought as he grimly chugged half his beer in one go.

  
  


His prayer went unanswered. They managed to finish two rounds at the first pub before John got far too handsy, and Greg rushed them out and onto the next. 

The next, to his utter surprise, was a gay bar. Greg had nothing against gay bars, being relatively flexible in his sexuality. And even if he had identified as hetero, he _still_ wouldn’t have an issue with gay bars.

No. What he had an issue with was _Sherlock and John at a gay bar._ Or, rather, becoming the unexpected and reluctant third wheel to Sherlock and John at a gay bar. As an NSY DI, he knew Sherlock through casework, as a detective. Therefore, he had no idea that Sherlock could dance, or that he liked to dance—quite a bit, apparently. And that was fine. Totally fine.

What _wasn’t fine_ was how he danced with _John_ , while Greg was standing _right next to them_ , trying to catch the bartender's attention.

The second Sherlock’s hips started to move, a complex sense of foreboding came over Greg, and it wasn’t long before his dread was proven valid. While Sherlock shimmying his hips was completely fine, him rolling said hips against John’s thigh was much less so, and Greg could have gone his entire damn life without _that_ mental image.

“Fuck,” he muttered, grabbing both men by the arm and shoving them toward the packed dance floor. “Just… go. Bloody well go down there and dance while I get the drinks.” He flicked his fingers at them, grimacing when he realized Sherlock’s hand was already deep in John’s back pocket. He didn’t see where the other one was, and _really_ didn’t want to know. 

Greg turned his back as soon as John and Sherlock darted down to the lowered floor, disappearing into the writhing crowd. 

“Good riddance.” 

It took a while to get their drinks. The place was full, the music loud and heavy, sweaty bodies filling the air with humidity. Feeling warm, Greg shed his jacket, grateful for the black t-shirt underneath. 

The bartender took notice of him shortly after, sidling up along the counter with a sly smile. “What can I get you, Silver?” he asked, winking as he leaned over the bar to be heard above the music. 

Greg blinked, cleared his throat, and flushed. Since his divorce, it had been a while since anyone expressed an interest in him, and the bartender was far better looking than Greg expected from anyone who might wink at him. A little younger than he’d usually consider, but it was nice to be noticed.

“Uh, three beer,” he said, raising his voice over the bass. “And three shots.”

“What are you having?” the bartender asked, tilting his head in what was clearly a flirtatious gesture. Greg swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. 

“Whatever you recommend,” he managed, voice strained. The bartender’s smile widened to a grin, and he tipped another wink. 

“Sounds good, Daddy-o.” He turned toward the taps with a shake of his lithe hips, pouring the beers with practiced motions. Greg tried to look away, searching the bar for familiar dark curls and broad shoulders. But the crowd was one dark blur, and he found himself watching the bartender from the corner of his eyes.

When he returned, setting down a tray with the drinks, the bartender leaned over the counter, hooked a hand around the back of Greg’s neck and drew him closer. “Your friends are at a table near the back,” he said into Greg’s ear, voice pitched low and rough. “By the way, I’m Carl. And drinks are on the house.” Leaning back, he snagged one of the banknotes from Greg’s hand with a coquettish wink. “But I won’t say no to a tip.” Carl moved away to the bar’s far end with a smouldering glance to help someone else, leaving Greg in a daze. 

Once he recovered, Greg made his way through the crowd, spotting John and Sherlock at a small table. They looked loose and flushed, sweat shining on their brows. Sherlock’s jacket was off, the top two buttons of his dress shirt undone. John’s arm was draped over his shoulders, fingers playing absently with a sweat-slick curl twisting over Sherlock’s ear. 

Looking at them, Greg felt a pang of envy. He shook it off and placed the drinks on the table. 

“Shots, lads?” he said, coughing around the rough edge in his voice. Bracing himself for a searing deduction from Sherlock, Greg was relieved when the detective barely glanced his way.

“Thanks, George.” He reached out and retrieved one of the shot glasses, tipping it playfully to John’s open mouth, catching him in mid-laugh. The glass tilted, most of the liquor making it past John’s lips, Sherlock darting forward to capture the dribble slipping down John’s chin with his tongue. 

Instead of calling them on it, Greg just sighed and reached for his own shot. The drink was spicy and dark, and he knocked it back before chancing a quick look over his shoulder at the bar. Carl was busy with a group of men, pouring shots to the enthusiastic shouts of his patrons. 

When he turned back to Sherlock and John, Greg found John lifting the remaining shot glass, only to pause and frown. He brought the glass to his face, blinked, and peeled off a slip of paper from the bottom. 

“Who is ‘Silver?’” he asked, bemused. Greg leaned over the table to snatch the paper away, turning it over to stare in shock. There was a phone number scrawled on the slip, slightly smudged by condensation. It was signed, _Call me, Silver. ;) - Carl_

Greg cleared his throat, mumbling, “No idea. Probably meant for someone else.” Feigning nonchalance, he stuffed the note into his pocket, trying to ignore John’s pointed look. Thankfully, Sherlock distracted him by dragging his tongue over the side of John’s face and whispering something Greg was glad he didn’t catch. 

“Cripes,” he grumbled, grabbing a beer to distract himself. “I hope you two weren’t this handsy at John’s stag-do.”

His attention shifting away from John’s neck, Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “Why do you think the wedding was called off?” 

Greg shot John an incredulous look, who, the alcohol clearly taking effect, just giggled. “Bloody hell,” Greg sighed, receiving a sharp, smug grin from Sherlock before he turned back to whispering inappropriate things into John’s ear. 

  
  


By the time they reached the next location, Greg was beginning to flag. His alcohol level was nowhere near high enough to cope with Sherlock and John’s continued hands-on approach to the night, and their evident love was beginning to wear on him. 

“Alright, lads,” he said, once they had finished their second round. “I think it’s time to call it.” 

“Mmmmmmkayyy," John slurred the word out into a long, unsteady hum, his head lolling against Sherlock’s shoulder. “Just gotta use the loo, be a mo’.”

Sherlock tried to follow, to Greg's alarm, and he whined when Greg caught him by the arm and pushed him back into his seat. “But _Gavin._ I have to use the _loo.”_

“No. You can bloody well wait.” He caught the detective and forced him to sit again. “Also, I can tell when you’re lying.”

Sherlock subsided into a pout, arms crossed over his chest as he swayed drunkenly. Greg’s suspicions were confirmed when John returned five minutes later, looking bemused and disappointed. 

“Sherlock, I thought we were gonna—”

“Nope!” Greg interrupted, drowning him out. “None of that. Time to go!” He grabbed John and Sherlock by the arms, hauling them out, leaving the money on the table. 

  
  


Forcing them into the back of a cab was a struggle, and Greg settled into the passenger seat with a loud sigh. When the cabbie raised his brows in a silent query, Greg just shook his head, mumbled, “Don’t ask,” and gave the address for Baker Street. 

It wasn’t long before his choice to sit in the front became clear to everyone in the cab, a noisy gasp followed by a lengthy groan rising from the backseat. The cabbie stared straight ahead, but his brow furrowed, and he stiffened. Sighing, Greg twisted to glare over his shoulder.

“Keep your hands to yourself, John! And Sherlock, get back in your seat and put your belt on! I swear to god, I’ll throw you both in jail again if I have to.” 

A quiet, “Sorry, Greg,” met his angry words, nearly drowned out by Sherlock’s frustrated whine. 

“Christ,” the cabbie muttered as Greg turned forward. “Got your hands full, don’t ya?”

Glaring grimly out the window, Greg narrowed his eyes. “Mate, you’ve no idea.”

  
  


Greg had never been happier to see the familiar black door of 221B. It was a struggle to extract Sherlock and John from the cab, Greg waving off the driver’s offer for help. He paid the cabbie, tipped him generously, and dragged the two drunk men off the sidewalk. 

All the way to the door, Sherlock hung off John like a limpet, John alternating between giggles and moans as Sherlock lathed his tongue over John’s neck. 

“Bloody hell,” Greg barked, forced to dig into John’s pockets for the keys. “Could you just, for _one second_ , keep your hands off one another?”

Sherlock paused in groping at John’s waist to look Greg dead in the eye and state, “No.” 

Rolling his eyes, Greg finally liberated the keys from John’s jeans. “Of course not. Should have figured it was too much to ask.”

Sherlock’s expression shifted toward pleased and dreamy, swaying with his chin on John’s shoulder, who looked utterly smashed. “Yes,” he hummed vacantly, looping his long arms around John’s torso. 

A low sigh his only reply, Greg turned and fit the key into the lock, pushing the door open and nudging the two inebriated husbands-to-be into the entryway. Almost immediately, Sherlock tripped over the rug, pulling John down with him. They fell in a twisted thud and lay there, John sprawled over Sherlock’s long legs. 

“Think you two will survive until morning?” Greg snapped, eyeing them with annoyance. John looked up at him and closed his eyes half-way as he nodded with a besotted expression.

“Probably,” he replied, already working at Sherlock’s belt. 

Greg winced. “Jesus, couldn’t you wait until you’re upstairs?” His words did nothing to discourage John from slipping Sherlock’s belt from his trousers, Sherlock sighing with his arms sprawled on either side of him. “Don’t let your landlady see you two groping one another.”

“Mrs. Hudson’s at her sisters,” John replied, slurring his s-sounds. Sherlock nodded enthusiastically, lifting his hips as John began to work his tight trousers down his hips. 

Rolling his eyes again, Greg groused, “Lucky her. Okay, at least wait until I'm gone before you start taking off Sherlock’s pants—aaaand, they’re off. Hell, props to you, lads, wow. Okay, that’s more than enough— _n_ _o_ , John, don’t go down on him while I’m still standing right—alright, bye!”

Greg spun on his heel and slammed the door behind him. Standing on the pavement, he rubbed the heels of his palms hard against his closed eyes. There was really no way to unsee what he had just seen, but maybe, if he got _really_ drunk, he could avoid the nightmares. He could have gone his entire life without seeing John’s lips stretching to fit around— _nope._ Nope, that was more than enough dwelling.

As he walked down the sidewalk, Greg combed through the evening, trying to distract himself from the unanticipated porn demonstration happening just inside the door of John and Sherlock’s flat. 

His mind drifted back to the gay bar, and his brief, fleeting feelings of envy upon seeing how utterly besotted John and Sherlock were with one another. Hands stuffed into his pockets, he strode toward the Underground, brow furrowed.

It had been nearly a year since he and the ex-wife split, and Greg had yet to get back into the dating game. Carl’s note burned a hole in his pocket, and he found himself pulling it out, his fingers creasing the edge of the fold. He’d looked to be in his 20s, drastically younger than Greg himself, who was pushing into his 50s with the grey hair and cranky back to match.

But Carl had called him Silver, and Greg would be lying if he didn’t admit there had been a definite thrill when their eyes met. 

Maybe he didn’t have to think too hard, here. Maybe, like Sherlock and John, he should let things fall where they may. 

With the Underground station in view, Greg tucked the number back into his pocket. He found himself whistling, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips, the air pleasantly warm for January. 


End file.
